The Savage Inheritance
by Luckynumber28
Summary: Raised in ignorance of English magic, when Mercy Savage's doting but secretive father dies in a mysterious fire, she inherits his extensive library. However, the will also stipulates that she become a ward of Mr. Gilbert Norrell. Mercy travels to Hurtfew Abbey with many questions and a dark figure haunting her steps, seeking to receive his due.
1. A Few White Hairs

**A/N:** This story is inspired by a mix of the events in both the miniseries and the book, so things are mixed with both mediums...just so you know (:

* * *

 **Jamaica, 1805**

Mr. Edward Savage, formerly of Newcastle, had resided in Spanish Town, Jamaica for many years before his gruesome and untimely death. An accidental flame, unintentional as proven by a following inquest, rose up in the small hours of morning and had engulfed most of the grand plantation where the gentleman lived with his only daughter. He was the single casualty of the disaster. His daughter, the servants and even the animals of the house were all brought to safety. And strangely enough, his beloved library had escaped destruction as well. All his books, every single volume, suffered not a singe.

Lawyers in midnight robes were dispatched following a funeral that buried a nearly empty coffin (nothing was found of Mr. Savage following the fire but his hands). They hemmed and hawed over crinkling, yellowed papers, the Caribbean heat making their starched collars chafe against their pasty necks. It was announced that Miss Mercy Savage was to inherit a sizable one thousand pounds a year. The young woman would also come into the possession of every book, scrap of paper and pot of ink that had been kept in her father's library.

An awkward pause followed as the two men squinted at a hastily scratched note scrawled at the bottom of the will. One of the lawyers pushed the edge of the powdered wig from his sweaty forehead and cleared his throat.

"Though...it seems there is a...stipulation..."

Miss Savage glanced at Mrs. Waters, a respectable neighbor of advanced years who had taken her in after the fire. Mrs. Waters sniffed and lifted her sharp chin. "Well then? What is it?"

"Miss Savage will inherit everything... under the condition that she returns to England."

"But she has no family remaining there. Where will she reside? You cannot be suggesting she live alone? Unchaperoned?" Mrs. Waters babbled, grasping her charge's hands where they lay clenched in her lap.

The younger lawyer with a nervous blink in his right eye shook his head. "N-no, of course not. She is to live as a ward at the estate of her late father's particular friend."

Miss Savage wet her dry lips. "My father had no friends."

"Seems he had one." The lawyer with the wig held the will to the dying light of sunset. Mrs. Waters motioned for one of her servants to light the candles. "A Mr. Gilbert Norrell of Hurtfew Abbey in Yorkshire."

"Well? Do you recognize the name?" Mrs. Waters insisted of her young friend.

Miss Savage shook her head wearily, wishing she could slip back into the chair in a most unbecoming manner and press her hands to her raw face. In all her nineteen years, her father had never mentioned this Gilbert Norrell or Hurtfew Abbey. She had never even seen England, her mother having given birth to her on passage to Jamaica. Mrs. Waters and the two lawyers were just as ignorant of the name Norrell.

Mr. Norrell wasn't a man known by many at the time, in England or beyond the Sargasso Sea. Yet the few in certain circles who had heard mention of him knew one thing. Mr. Norrell possessed the richest and most extensive library of books of English magic in or outside the country.

An even lesser known fact, something only Gilbert Norrell and Edward Savage knew, was that Savage's library was nearly as copious in books of magic. They had been rivals in life, in many ways. But now that death had taken Savage, Norrell was left the sudden victor in a life long contention. Savage's beloved books would now go to Norrell along with the second thing the dead man treasured most in life; his daughter.

* * *

Mercy Savage sat at the bone white vanity in Mrs. Waters' guest room. It had the best view overlooking the sea beyond a field of sugar cane. Her hostess said she hoped the vista would be refreshing. The crimson light of dawn burst like a tropical bloom along the horizon, fiery petals slipping along the silvery, calm waters. In the reflection of the vanity mirror, Mercy studied the purple shadows under her blood shot eyes. Her cheeks were sunken and gray. Sleep had been hard to come by since the fire. Every sound in the night, creak of wood in the house, the chime of the clock, set her heart pounding.

Her insomnia had grown worse since the inquest. The authorities had asked if she had witnessed anything strange the night of the fire. In her stunned state, Mercy only blinked back at them and said no. Later, she recalled not seeing but hearing something odd while passing her father's library. The double doors were closed as usual, they always were whether Mr. Savage was working inside or not. She had rarely entered the dusty room, he had always provided her with her own books and sitting room so there was never any need. Though it had never been spoken, Mercy was certain she wouldn't have been welcomed despite her father's affection for her.

The shadows in the windowless hall outside the library had closed in around Mercy as though they threatened to snuff the glow of her single candle. The wood creaked with invisible footfalls and the faint toll of a bell echoed around her. She paused. Her father's voice murmured behind the door, the muted words asking a question she couldn't hear. But she was certain there was no one else inside to reply.

Mercy reached out for the door handle, her fingers hovering over it, when a dizzying fog numbed her mind. She pulled away without hesitation then she marched back to her bedroom. She was roused from a deep sleep by tendrils of smoke leeching under her door. Her chambermaid rushed in with wide eyes and loose hair, her nightgown smudged with soot. By the time they made it outside, the grand house was a loss, heat shattering the windows and the east wing of the house collapsing into ash. But the west wing, where Mr. Savage had built his stone mausoleum of a library, remaining untouched. When venturing through the ruins in the early morning, she found the door knobs to the room still gleaming, untarnished by smoke or fire.

She ran a hand through her loose hair and pulled a swath of it across her face, still smelling the smoke in it despite it being weeks since the fire. She glanced into the mirror and her stomach dropped. Something was missing. She frantically brushed out her light brown curls. Since childhood, a single lock of white hair had grown above her left ear. Inexplicably, now it was gone, the strands matching the rest of her head. The brush clattered to the floor as Mercy gaped at her reflection. Her father had possessed the same strange curl of pure white.

Bleary eyed, Mercy's gaze drifted towards the window. A speck of a ship was growing closer on the horizon, perhaps the one to take her back to England. In a week's time, Mercy Savage would be leaving Spanish Town and all she'd ever known with nothing left of her father, not even the curious strand of white hair they had shared. All that remained was his money. And the books.


	2. A Stray Dog

**London, England 1811**

The servant girl tried to shoo away the stray dog, a shaggy mutt that stood obstinately at the foot of the front steps. The animal dropped it's rear on the icy cobblestones and lifted it's snout in challenge. Gingerly, she skirted down a few steps and hissed at it to scamper away. Her mistress was due home soon and though she was not a precious woman, the servant girl did not want her to be inconvenienced.

Truthfully, the girl liked Mrs. Arabella Strange and wanted to please her. Her duties were always preformed skillfully and to the letter of decorum for a person of her station. Even the head butler had commented on occasion that the girl was made for greater things. She might even aspire to the position of housekeeper someday if she remained faithful in her work.

"Get on with you," a man growled at the animal. He had materialized out of the shadows from a brick fissure, thickly swathed in naked ivy vines. The dog hopped to it's feet and pranced towards the stranger.

The girl was taken aback by the man's sudden appearance but it did not take her long to recover. After all, she was employed in the house of the great magician, Jonathan Strange. To be in service of such a man, one was expected to keep a cool head no matter what wonders came to pass. But upon further inspection, she found that the man could very well have been born from the shadows themselves.

His clothes, rich in fabric and make, were old fashioned. A jet garrick coat that had been patched and was muddy at the hem swung around his limber frame. A black hat crowned ragged black hair that frayed like a mass of crow feathers. His expression was wry if unsure as he studied her and patted the animal at his side.

The servant girl cleared her throat. "Is that dog yours, sir?"

"No." He didn't cut his dark eyes away, nor did he seem to have anything more to say.

The clatter of hooves on the street drew her attention. It was Mrs. Strange's carriage. The servant girl looked back to shoo both the man and the dog away but found herself alone. He had disappeared as swiftly as he had come into being. A chilled January breeze brushed a square of tattered paper to the foot of the steps. With a quick glance in the carriage's direction, she dropped to the sidewalk and snatched it up.

A dog eared card had been crudely illustrated on the back of a tavern bill then pasted to a thicker cut of cardboard. Two figures were intertwined, lovers, with a pair of goblets hovering over them. The words _deux des tasses_ was written at their bare feet. Her fingers tingled as she ran them over the drawing. This was magic, she had lived in the Strange household long enough to recognize it. And that man, the one from the shadows, she surmised that he must have been a magician. But there were only two practical magicians in all of England, not even the yellow curtained vagabonds selling curses for cheap were true magicians.

Mrs. Strange's carriage pulled up to the curb and she considered telling her of the meeting. However, as the coachman opened the cab door to reveal her mistress with her arms full of shopping bags, the servant girl forgot the moment as though it had never occurred. She couldn't even remember what she had been doing out in the cold waiting for so long. She should have stayed inside the foyer to prevent catching a chill.

"Mary!" Mrs. Strange declared as the girl took the parcels from her. "Thank you so much, please let me help you bring them in."

"No need, ma'am," Mary Stewart chirped as she efficiently swept up the stairs. "I already have called for the tea to be set."

"Thank you, Mary. You are a God send."

The man in the black coat watched from the corner as the girl helped her mistress into the house. Having melted into the shadows of late afternoon, he had evaded her notice. The dog had trotted away, his task complete and happily gnawing on a turkey bone.

She had been everything he remembered, her upturned nose lifted high and curled lips perpetually on the verge of a smirk. Life as a servant had not tarnished her gleam, taken the smart clip from her step or stately turn of her head, mousy curls escaping her mob cap. But the shadows under her mossy brown eyes had been erased and a healthy pink tinted her cheeks. She was happy. And she was safe. It should have been enough. If it hadn't been for that strand of hair over her left ear, a shock of white in one too young.

John Childermass tucked his hands on his cloak as he strode away and played with the tattered deck of cards in his pocket. He would bring it up to his master. Whether Norrell approved of him seeing her, it didn't matter. Norrell owed the girl that much at least, no matter how he tried to excuse what had been done to her. If anything, it gave Childermass the chance to see her at least once more.


	3. A Seed Cake or Two

**York, England 1805**

The carriage stopped in the city to change horses. After having ridden from London, where upon her arrival from Jamaica she had stayed a fortnight with friends of Mrs. Waters, Mercy had begun the journey north. At the dinner parties held by the Godesdones who had hosted her, she had earned many a shocked and fascinated inquiry to her plans.

One gentleman, a highly fashionable man named Drawlight who had made the party fourteen, had suggested she find a way to wiggle out of her obligations. Perhaps he could talk to some lawyer friends of his to see if she could forego the doom waiting her in the northern wilds. He claimed that a lovely, young lady as herself shouldn't be left to such a fate, it was unconscionable. She had thanked him kindly but declined his help. Though well connected, she quickly observed that men like Drawlight often leeched on to those who seemed the best means of upward social mobility. Wealthy, young and though not beautiful but pretty just the same, Mercy knew she made such a target.

As diverting as London society proved to be and as easily as she had slipped into it's glimmering trance, Mercy was drawn to the mystery of her father's last wish. Mr. Norrell, though presumed moneyed and landed, wasn't a name any were familiar with. It seemed none knew of him. Even as she crossed into Yorkshire and waited for the horses to be refreshed, those she met in the tavern knew little of him.

With the grit of the road dusting her skirts and her nerves raw from miles of rough roads, she found a quiet anteroom adjacent to the pub. The bar keep, smelling money in her fine clothes, had drawn a thin curtain over the doorway and promised her solitude. After taking her request for tea and a plate of seed cakes, he left her to the quiet crackle of a small hearth. Mercy removed her gloves and bonnet. Rubbing her aching neck, she closed her eyes.

A shudder passed over the quiet room, the walls creaking as though a heavy gale accosted them outside. The fire behind the iron grate dimmed and the twin tallow candles bleeding greasy wax flared. The forlorn chime of clock echoed somewhere in the tavern. Numbly, she noticed that the voices of the men at the bar had muted as though underwater. Or perhaps she was the one submerged.

"Miss Savage, how you have grown."

Mercy peered through the shadows as the curtain was tugged aside. A man entered the room and meandered towards the hearth, perching an elbow against the mantle with a smug grin. His yellow hair was too long to be considered proper, it put to mind certain romantic poets with wicked reputations. Dark, deep set eyes under heavy black brows took her in approvingly.

"You have your mother's easy social grace to be sure, I can only imagine how many proposals you would have received had you stayed any longer in London. Though from those keen eyes of yours, I believe you possess your father's intelligence as well. But perhaps not his mental strength. We shall see."

Mercy squinted in the odd light. "I am sorry, but have we met?"

His oxblood coat rustled around his legs as he moved towards a seat by the small window. Mercy could have sworn there wasn't a tree branch scraping against the glass pane a moment earlier. Arranging himself elegantly in the chair, the crisp white cravat at his throat loose, he regarded her again with the same strange, half smile.

"Oh many years ago. You would not recall. You were only a small child when your father brought me to you. You were asleep in bed, I did not want to disturb you." He reached towards her ear with long, pale fingers. She froze as he curled a strand of her hair around a knuckle. "You seem to be missing something, my lady."

Mercy blinked out of her stupor and tore away from his touch. "Sir, I beg your pardon, but what right have you to speak to me in such a way. I have no memory of our acquaintance-"

"But you see, I do have certain rights where you are concerned, Mercy Savage. Your father saw to it. And you should be more concerned about your manners in my presence."

Mercy gave a stunned scoff. "And why is that?"

"I come from a place far grander than seen in your world. My kingdom, Untold-Blessings, is one of the most beautiful of faerie. Soon I shall be king, once my brothers are all done away with, one way or another." The prince of Untold-Blessings cocked his head to the side in a predatory fashion. "And soon, I shall need a consort."

Wetting her lips, Mercy smoothed out her skirts. She felt the same revulsion towards this stranger as she did with Mr. Drawlight at the dinner party. Though the setting had taken an odd turn, he was the same kind of man bent to use her for his own means. "Sir, I am tired. I have traveled a great distance today and I would appreciate my privacy."

The oxblood prince rose to his feet with a consenting nod, hair the color of antique paper tumbled over his shoulders. "Of course, my lady. Please forgive my intrusion. I felt this was the best time for our introduction. When you arrive at Hurtfew Abbey, I am not sure when I may see you next. But do not fret, I will return."

The curtain in the doorway sliced open and blew out one of the candles on the hearth. The fire roared to life and the window outside reflected the red brick of the building next door. Except for herself, the room was empty. Mercy rubbed her eyes as though she had awoken from a quick sleep, her senses dazed.

"Oh I am most sorry, Miss! I do hope I didn't disturb you-" the bar keep exclaimed, the tea pot and plate with the yellow cake rattling on a tray.

"No, not at all." Mercy waved a hand in the vague direction of the squat table in front of her. "I must have dozed off. Thank you."

After finishing a cup of tea, Mercy found she had no appetite for the cake. It was for the best as the coachman entered the tavern to inform her that the carriage was ready to take her the final few leagues to Hurtfew Abbey. Fighting a wave of exhaustion, Mercy moved to replace her bonnet on her head. She ran her fingers through the mussed curls above her ear and supposed she must have worried them while she had slept.


	4. An Ivy Leaf

"Oh my, if you could- Chil- Childermass! Please make sure they use the gloves," Mr Norrell fretted, pointing an accusing finger at the men carrying the crates of books into Hurtfew Abbey. "Please. Be most careful, sirs. These are precious."

John Childermass, Mr. Norrell's man of business in his service for fifteen years, slapped a pair of dusting gloves on the chest of one of the movers and arched his dark eyebrows without a word. The men complied dutifully.

"At least Edward had the sense to see them properly packaged before their voyage," Mr. Norrell murmured as he ran nimble fingers down the side of a wooden crate, his small blue eyes alight with greed.

"I do believe the man was dead before they set sail," Childermass replied, gently cracking open the edge of the crate.

"Yes, you are correct. Quite dead, if I'm not mistaken. There wasn't anything left of him to bury after the fire-"

"Except for the hands," a female voice, a strange sound for the halls of Hurtfew, stated plainly. "I am surprised you were not informed of that macabre detail."

A young woman stood in the dying light, calmly removing her gloves and bonnet as though she were the lady of the house returning from a trip to town. She gave Mr. Norrell a weary but cordial smile, her slippers silent on the stone floor as she moved towards them. Mr. Norrell's jaw slackened. He had forgotten entirely about the young woman accompanying the books despite the fact that she was their true owner. He straightened his posture and gave a short bow, holding out a hand to take hers. Childermass shrugged in apathy then continued to open the crate.

"Miss Savage, may I introduce myself. I am Gilbert Norrell." He took her hand and gave it a light shake though his eyes drifted towards the next round of boxes being lugged into the abbey. "I hope your journey wasn't too taxing. I myself am not fond of travel."

"It was tiring but my stay in London was refreshing."

A moment of awkward silence passed between them, the young woman waiting expectantly for the proper welcoming measures. Mr. Norrell rarely had guests, much less one like Miss Savage. As his ward, she was to become part of the household. He hardly had any notion on how to address such a circumstance. And the books... his mind spun as he tried to calculate how many he now possessed, if there would be room in his library for them all, when he could get them rebound for certainly the Caribbean air must have damaged more than a few of them-

"Mr. Norrell, I would be obliged if you could show me to my rooms," Miss Savage interrupted his distracted thoughts.

The little man in the old fashioned powdered wig jumped as though she had woken him from a dream. He gave a curt nod and motioned for Childermass. "Yes, of course. I do apologize. You must be weary. Childermass, if you please?"

Miss Savage gazed after him in surprised amusement as he left her for an open crate. Norrell's manner was nothing to be expected in a gracious host. Even though he had spent his ragged childhood pickpocketing on city streets, Childermass had caught on quickly to the rules of proper etiquette, if only to make up for his master's short comings.

"Miss Savage-" Childermass rose to his feet and looked her in the eye for the first time.

Shadows drifted around her shoulders and curled under her chin like ivy vines. It was a wild, strange magic that made the light hazy around her, nothing like the magic his master performed. This was altogether more ancient, malevolent even, and it clung to her like dust. Childermass swallowed and glanced back at Norrell. The little man was digging gingerly through the crate he had just opened, oblivious to what he had invited into the abbey.

"I should very much like to rest," she stated, the edge to her weary voice barely concealed. She seemed as ignorant to the magic as his master, but perhaps it was a ruse. Perhaps Miss Savage had been given the opportunity to go through her father's books and had become a lady magician but one more powerful than Norrell despite his years of study. Childermass drew close and studied her till she looked away from his probing gaze. There was no guile in her muddy green eyes. But he would keep close watch on her just the same.

"If you will follow me, Miss Savage." Childermass lit a candelabra and led her into the depths of the abbey.

* * *

The winding halls twisted like decrepit oak branches till Mercy was certain she would never be able to find her own way. The abbey seemed have been translated from the pages of a novel by Mrs. Radcliff with Gothic towers the color of old snow, trimmed with medieval crownings. Hemmed in by monstrous green hedges and bony, late winter trees, it was all very romantic.

But Mr. Norrell was nothing she had expected in the owner of such a house. A neat, fussy, little man who was perhaps a few years younger than her father, he wore a dated powdered wig and a pinched expression. For the brief moment he'd spoken to her, he'd barely looked at her before dismissing her rudely.

And then the man servant of his who led her through the house.

Mercy hadn't known where to look as he had loomed over her, glaring into her face as though she wore a mask he was trying to see past. She could not imagine what a man like him would be good for in the service of a gentleman. Ten or fifteen years older than her, he seemed more the type to frequent taverns filled with smugglers and horse thieves.

"Stay close, Miss Savage." The servant named Childermass instructed dryly. His heavy Yorkshire drawl bounced off the corridor walls. "The way is...convoluted."

She thought that to be an understatement but complied just the same. He came to a sudden stop outside a large door, sconces on the wall lit in expectation. The hinges creaked as he opened it. She passed him and surveyed her new chambers. There was a sitting room with a hearth and cheerful fire. The door to an adjoining room showed the foot of a four poster bed. A glow filled the room though the light from the windows and the fire did not account for it.

"My things?" She turned towards the servant named Childermass but did not look him in the eye.

"They will be brought up presently."

"I should like a pot of tea as well." She laid a hand on the high back of a gray sopha and tapped her fingers.

The floorboards under Childermass's feet squeaked as he moved a step into the room. "Are your quarters sufficient, Miss Savage?"

"Quite, thank you."

"I will have dinner sent up to you, if you wish."

Mercy pursed her mouth in distaste. "My host does not wish to dine with me?"

A wry twist of his lips betrayed his cool expression. "I apologize for my master. He is unaccustomed to guests."

"But I am not a guest, am I?" Mercy could not help demanding.

If she was expected to reside at Hurtfew Abbey, she needed to feel like she belonged. However, following their brief encounter, Mr. Norrell gave her the impression that he would never make her feel that way. It crushed any hope of finding an ounce of her father in the man, a comforting paternal figure to ease the pain of Edward Savage's passing. All the little man was concerned with were those books. She fought to maintain control of her nerves and took a deep breath.

"No, you are not." Childermass took another step forward and peered at her from across the room, studying her with a dizzying mix of concern and suspicion.

"What is it, sir? Why do you insist on looking at me like that?" She petitioned shrilly.

Childermass took another impertinent step closer and reached out for her left ear. With quick fingers, he retrieved an ivy leaf, green with life despite the chill outside, from where it had been tangled in her hair. She blinked after it. A brief memory surfaced of an encounter in a tavern only to be drowned once more in the present.

"I do not mean to offend, Miss Savage. You are not what I expected."

"And what did you expect?"

"Not you." Childermass growled, twirling the leaf between his ink smudged fingers thoughtfully.

The air shifted between them, the light dimming and the walls creaking with age. A chill ran up Mercy's spine as though a phantom touch had brushed over her shoulder blade. Childermass's keen gaze shot upwards, gazing past her into the empty room. He was holding his breath, lips parted and brow creased in confusion. The spell of the moment was shattered as two servants carried one of her trunks into the room.

A messy curl loose from the queue at the base of his neck drifted over the side of his face as Childermass turned his unsettling glare on her. "If there is anything else I can do-"

"N-no, thank you," Mercy stuttered, wanting the man to leave. "I will have supper in my rooms."

"Very well. Good evening."

Mercy gripped the back of the sopha and inhaled deeply through her nose only to find Childermass had left the scent of wild moors and spiced ale in the air.


	5. A Quatrain of Pigeons

**London, England 1811**

Jeremy Johns followed close behind as Mary Stewart strutted past the food stands, her nose lifted in scrutiny. Unlike other houses, Mrs. Strange enjoyed directing meal preparation. She had come from more humble roots as the sister of a curate. She enjoyed surveying the cooking and would even lend a hand in the kitchen. It only endeared her more to Mary and made her particular about the ingredients she bought at the market.

"Fresh?" Mary sniffed and lifted her eyebrows at Jeremy.

Mr. Strange's manservant smirked as he coolly appraised the fish stand. "Perhaps last week..."

With a lingering sigh, Mary ignored the earnest expression on the fishmonger's red face and continued on with the crowd. She had hoped to find some nice herring as a surprise for Mrs. Strange who enjoyed it in pie but not if it wasn't up to her standards.

"Perhaps some pigeon for a pie." Mary stopped at a well organized counter where fowl of all kinds hung in a neat row above a clean, friendly woman with a young girl at her side. She smiled cordially. "Good morning, Mrs. Bertram. Miss Joy."

Mrs. Bertram and her daughter chatted heartily with Mary as they wrapped a quatrain of pigeon for her. "With the livers intact, it makes the best pie that way."

Jeremy reached for the package while Mary dug into her little draw string purse for the money. As she retrieved the coins, the odd card with the crude drawing of the lovers fell and was caught by the breeze.

"Oh!" Mary exclaimed.

Handing the coins to little Joy Bertram, she started in the direction of the card. She wasn't sure where she had first found it, the memory escaped her, but she had felt an unusual attachment to it. It fell at the crossroads between the market square and the corner of Threadneedle Street. The heavy midwinter clouds parted and a spray of sickly yellow sunlight gleamed on the frosted cobblestones. Mary leaned down to retrieve the card when someone else snatched it from her grasp. Broken fingernails and greasy hands, a sour smell emanated from the man's ragged clothes, his eyes were a startling blue, flashing as he turned the card over in his hands.

Mary gathered herself and held out her palm with a haughty tilt of her head. "If you please, sir, that belongs to me."

"No, I believe it doesn't, mistress," the odd fellow replied with a teasing grin as he scratched his stringy beard. "Where did you find it?"

Jeremy caught up and stood protectively at her shoulder. "Sir, that belongs to Miss Stewart-"

"No, no, we've already established that it doesn't. I'll give it back but I would like to know how this little servant girl came into possession of it." The man blinked back up at Mary, his gaze piercing her with interest.

Instead of getting frustrated, Mary found herself confused as though she had woken up expecting to be in one room but was in another place entirely. She had found the card while she was sitting in a small private room of a tavern with a plate of seed cakes and talking with a gentleman in an oxblood coat. No. No, she had been standing on the threshold of a great house, the foyer filled with boxes upon boxes of books. No, that wasn't it either. She had been running from a burning building, the heat sizzling through the back of her nightgown, and the card had been blown by the wind into her path. No. That couldn't have been it, those were all dreams-

"Sir, I will not ask again. If you do not return the lady's card, I will call for the police," Jeremy demanded, breaking her from the trance.

Mary tore her eyes from the man and swallowed hard, feeling warm despite the chill in the air. No, she was Mary Stewart, a servant in the house of the great Jonathan Strange, and she'd found the card sitting on the sidewalk at the bottom of the front steps to the house. Her racing thoughts came to a halt and she was herself again.

"Never mind, Jeremy. If the _gentleman_ wants it that badly he can keep it," she snapped, starting to turn away.

The man's greasy hand shot out and snatched her wrist. Too surprised to pull away, she stared wide eyed into his wild gaze. He pressed the card into her palm. "Keep this on you, Miss. I don't need to give you a reading to know you are in danger. The man who has the rest of the deck, he is your last tie to the world you knew, should you want it back. Find him before it's lost."

He loosed her as Jeremy took a threatening step forward. He then scuttled into the crowd and was lost. The clouds veiled the sun and a gloom fell over the street. With trembling fingers, she turned the card over and studied the back where the paste had eaten through the cardboard to the tavern bill underneath. A messy scrawl of a name was etched at the bottom with only five legible letters, C-H-I-L-D. Child?

"Are you alright, Miss Mary?" Jeremy laid a steady hand on her upper arm. "Come now, let's go home and get you warm. You're shaking like a leaf."

Mary nodded numbly and took Jeremy's elbow as he led her back to the Strange's house.


	6. A Snuffed Candle

**Yorkshire, England 1805**

Mercy stood in the dining room of the abbey, patiently waiting by the window. She had been at the house a week and Mr. Norrell had yet to dine with her. Trying not to take the insult too gravely, she had been pleasant on the rare occasion they crossed paths. He always seemed distracted though, barely acknowledging her presence, and when they spoke his tone was dismissive.

Several times he had been holding a book under his arm. She wondered if they were her father's books, her property by rights. Though they had never held any interest for her in the past, her curiosity was now piqued. Both Norrell and Edward Savage had guarded those tomes like they were made of gold. Though her father had always been affectionate towards her, Mercy had grown up wondering if he valued his library over her own person. She laughed off the doubt when she had gotten older, concluding that her dear papa was only an eccentric scholar. But this Norrell, he was even more emphatic in his studies.

Once, she had tried to catch the title of a book Norrell held and saw _The Language of Birds_. Perhaps he was a naturalist. Such an occupation had become popular of late and they were in country where his studies could be conducted in the wild. But she had rarely seen him step outside the abbey and he was forever complaining of a cold or other ailment. Mr. Norrell hardly seemed the hardy type to wander the moors in search of bird's nests.

She lit a candle in the late afternoon gloom and rubbed her hands over the small flame to ward off the chill. Some rooms, like her own chambers, were welcoming and warm, almost unnaturally so. And yet, in the rest of the abbey, the stones emanated a chill of their own like lingering winter in old bones.

A shift of light left the room darker than before and the walls creaked with age. The candle light flared and Mercy's eye was drawn to the hearth that had been cold. Flames leaped behind the grate as a figure tossed kindling into the red heart of the fire. The shadowy apparition rose to his feet and Mercy's heart skipped into her throat.

"Hello?" she breathed, expecting she was in the presence of a ghost. Hurtfew would make the perfect haunt for spirits.

The figure turned, the light catching the pale yellow in his long hair. He wore a smart dinner coat in the high fashion of the men she'd seen in London, nothing like the dated dress of Mr. Norrell and Childermass. It was oxblood in color and jogged a memory for her.

"Oh, it's you," she said as though seeing him there was the most natural thing in the world. She let out a relieved chuckle. "You will think me foolish, I thought you were a ghost."

The oxblood prince gave her an obliging smile and sauntered forward, his hands folded at his back. "I did not mean to frighten you, I only wanted to start a fire. I didn't want you to catch a chill in this tomb of a house. I assure you, my home is much more inviting than this pile of stone. I am sure you will agree when you visit."

Mercy regarded the handsome young man, gripping the candle in her hand. "Thank you for your courtesy but you are still being presumptuous. I have no formal acquaintance with you, you cannot expect me to visit."

"What if I were to hold a ball this very evening? I could invite you as the guest of honor."

The prince perched on the edge of the dining table across from her, a feral grin tugging at his bloodless lips. His dark eyes hooked her with their persistent gaze and Mercy felt as though she were falling into a mirror. A reflection of night winter woods and frozen peaks enveloped her in their harsh grasp. A pack of wolves hunted a white stag, the pursued animal wounded and weak. Splashes of blood burned in the snow. Mercy blinked and the vision passed, the blood melting into the rich, red brown of the gentleman's coat.

"No, thank you." Mercy retreated an inch from him. "I would need the permission of my guardian."

The prince chuckled ruefully with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Permission from your guardian? But you are a grown woman. The social mores of your world are quite vexing, I must say. Why a perfectly capable young person of sound mind, regardless of their sex, cannot make decisions for themselves is beyond me. But I respect your choice."

Footsteps out in the hall pulled her attention away, her breath coming out quickly and snuffing the candle. Once again she was alone but the fire still burned in the large hearth. Mr. Norrell and Childermass entered the room, a book cracked open in Norrell's hands.

"Oh! Miss Savage. I thought I heard voices. Were you alone?" Norrell asked, shutting the book and tucking it under his arm. "Miss Savage? Are you well?"

Mercy set the candle down on the dining room table and passed a hand over the curls on the left side of her head, dazed by a dizzy spell. Childermass stepped forward, his hands held out as though he expected her to swoon. Mercy steadied herself on the back of a chair and gave a weak smile.

"Yes, of course. I think I am tired, I have not slept well since arriving."

"Oh no, I am sorry for that, Miss Savage." Norrell moved next to Childermass, his forehead creased in concern. "I am often troubled by sleeplessness, I find a good book and a cup of warm milk help immensely."

Mercy nodded. "Thank you, Mr. Norrell. I was actually waiting to speak with you. I guessed you were in your library but the halls are so confusing, I did not want to get lost trying to find you."

Childermass had moved towards the hearth and leaned against the mantle, his dark gaze soaking in the details of the room as though it were a mystery to be solved. Ironically, Mercy felt Childermass was the greatest intrigue Hurtfew Abbey had to offer.

"How can I help you?" Norrell asked, his eyes drifting back towards the door leading to his study.

"I should like to see my father's books, perhaps assist in organizing them."

Norrell jolted and cocked his head to the side. "Why is that?"

Mercy let out a breathy laugh. "Well, because they belonged to him and they are all I have left of my father."

He wet his lips as his mouth turned down into a perplexed frown. Before he could make further argument, Childermass approached him. He stood in front of his master, his voice too low for Mercy to hear his words. Whatever he said, Norrell had changed entirely when Childermass moved away. The little man seemed to see her completely for the first time with that same searching stare Childermass gave her. Mercy shifted uncomfortably under the drill of his small blue eyes.

"Well, I suppose I could use an extra pair of hands to help, there is still much to do and the servants only know so much of these things. I've never had a young lady in my library before, but you don't seem like the type to cause trouble."

Though pleased by his invitation, Mercy was confused by his guarded tone. Suspicion froze his forced smile. Mercy made herself smile back.

"Thank you, shall we start tomorrow?"

"Very well."

The pained smile still on her face, her eyes flickered towards Childermass where he stood behind his master. He only glared back.


	7. A Candelabra

**Spanish Town, Jamaica 1805**

 _But sir, I am owed._

"I owe you nothing." Edward Savage tore the spectacles from his angular face, his hazel eyes flashing. "Be gone from my house. You have no business here."

 _You owe me a debt. I wish to have it paid._

"She is only nineteen-"

 _And how old was her mother when I saved her miserable, mortal life?_

Edward lifted a candelabra into the air, threatening to strike out with it. "She has one more year."

 _I am aware of that._

"Then why are you here?"

 _It has been fifteen years since we last spoke. I merely wanted to remind you that your time with your daughter is almost up._

The candelabra flew from Edward's hand as he hurled it across the room. It fell into the heavy curtains thick with dust drawn over the library windows.

 _Oh Edward. I do believe you will come to regret that decision, as many others you've made._

"Get out."

 _I don't believe I will._


	8. A Handkerchief

**Yorkshire, England, 1805**

The hallways leading to the library were even more of a maze. Mercy followed close behind Norrell as they ventured through the windowless corridors, the only light omitted from a single candle he held aloft. The newly waxed floors gave way to stone, the cold enveloping Mercy. She tucked her shawl closer about her shoulders as they climbed a short set of stairs. She had lost count of the rooms they'd passed or corners they had taken, nor could she recall if they faced the front or rear of the abbey.

"Please, Miss Savage, stay close. I do not wish to lose you."

Mercy skipped up the last couple steps and drew up behind Norrell, her thoughts clouded by the twisting passages.

"This is a very old building?" she asked.

"The very stones were made from the Raven King's castle."

Mercy arched a brow but did not reply. A learned man like Norrell did not seem the type to adhere to vague superstition and myth. However, before she could ask him to clarify, they turned a final corner to a dead end. The double doors creaked as he opened them.

"Oh," Mercy breathed as she took in the room. "My father would have loved to see this place..."

She felt as though she'd stepped into a cathedral, with vaulted ceilings and medieval columns, the place was lit by high windows letting in the chilly white light. Candles lined the spaces between book shelves. And the shelves themselves... filled to the brim from floor to ceiling with books of all sizes with fine leather bindings. Desks with papers and ink scattered the room. Childermass sat at one under one of the windows, light spilling over his back. He did not turn to look as they entered the library.

"Your father did see it once," Norrell replied, his tone dull with memory.

Mercy glanced over at the scholar. "How did you know my father, Mr. Norrell?"

The scratching of Childermass' pen silenced but he stayed seated. Norrell cleared his throat. "We were childhood friends. Along with your mother. She was a distant cousin of mine."

Norrell swiftly moved towards a corner of the cavernous room where a trio of crates sat, their sawdust fillings dusting the stone floor around them. Mercy followed and peeked in to find the remaining books from her father's library.

"These are the last of the crates to be organized." Norrell lifted a volume from one and flipped through it. He clucked his tongue as he examined the spine. "Edward should have known better. The damp tropical air was not good for these. Here, this one will go in that shelf at the far left. It's where I'm putting the ones to be rebound."

Mercy reached out for it but Norrell hesitated, pulling it away. Mercy cleared her throat. "Do you wish me to place it in the shelf?"

He blinked. "Yes...of course. But first..."

Mercy suppressed a grin as he tugged a pair of dusting gloves from his pocket and held them out. She complied without complaint and he managed a quick smile. Finally he handed her the book. It weighed down her hands. She scanned the title.

" _How to Put Questions to the Dark and Understand It's Answers_ ," she read aloud with a smirk. "A novel?"

Norrell stared up at her in horror. "Of course not. I would not keep such drivel as a novel on my shelves."

Mercy shrugged and meandered away. As she walked, she flipped open the front cover, her fingers tingling as she ran them over the words. "What is it about then?"

"English magic, of course," Norrell snapped irritably after her.

Mercy halted as Childermass came to stand before her. He snapped the book shut and took it from her hands without a glance. She took a turn about the room, studying the odd titles of the books there. _The Excellences of Christo-Judaic Magick_. _The Tree of Learning._ Trailing a finger down the spine of one, she let out a light chuckle.

"These are all books about the history English magic. You are a student of history, Mr. Norrell?" she asked amiably, turning towards the men where they were stacking books out of the crates.

They stopped and stared towards her, silence falling heavily between them. Mr. Norrell cleared his throat. "Of a sort."

"And my father, is that what he was studying all those years?"

Both men looked towards her in confusion. Mercy shifted uncomfortably under their gaze, rubbing her forearm.

"You never knew?" Norrell scoffed, tucking a book under his arm and stepping towards her, his gaze dancing with amusement. "Edward...he kept all this from you?"

Mercy tried not to be insulted by the smug grin on his face. "My father was very private."

"I never married or had children but I should hope I would have kept my offspring more enlightened than Edward did with you," Norrell spoke more to himself than her, Childermass giving an obvious eye roll behind him.

Mercy stiffened. "My father made sure I was well educated, sir. But he also made certain I understood the difference between fact and fantasy. Such figures as the Raven King are better fit in the pantheon next to Poseidon and Thor and not in our advanced age. Tales of magic are for children, it never existed then or now."

Norrell turned a chilly shoulder towards her. "I fear then this work will bore you, Miss Savage. It may be better if Childermass showed you the way back to your room."

Whipping the gloves from her hands, Mercy slapped them on the table near her and lifted her head. "Please don't trouble yourself, Childermass. I can find my own way."

She strode towards the door but was stopped in her path by the manservant blocking the way with his tall personage. He gave her a warning glance and reached for a candle. "It's no trouble, Miss Savage."

As Childermass led her through the creaking halls, Mercy swallowed hard a surge of tears. Her throat constricted and she dabbed at her damp eyes with the edge of her shawl. She kept her gaze on her slippers, her face burning with anger. If she had known this would be her life at Hurtfew Abbey, she never would have let her curiosity lead her here. She would have even preferred engaging the help of the odious Mr. Drawlight than suffer this humiliation.

Childermass halted and she realized they were standing in front of her rooms. She did not look at him directly but tugged the shawl tighter about her shoulders and sniffed. Childermass let out a sigh and dug a handkerchief from his coat. He offered it to her and she took it without a word.

"My master is not accustomed to interacting with others. Even less with female company. You must excuse him," Childermass explained in his throaty growl.

Mercy nodded, patting her cheeks. "I apologize. I do not know what came over me. You both must think me very rude."

"I believe neither of us know what to think of you, Miss Savage."

She looked up to find not his usual glare but his expression calm as he studied her tear stained face. She looked away and held out the kerchief. "Thank you, Childermass."

"Keep it." He opened the door to the room for her.

A wintry breeze rushed out to meet them. The flame of the candle he held between them flared and a tolling bell echoed into the hallway. Childermass's eyes widened and he slammed the door shut before she could enter.

"What-"

Childermass gripped her upper arm. "You best come with me."


	9. A Handshake

Childermass guided her by the elbow as gently as possible but his heart raced as he led them down towards the kitchens. Mercy Savage did not resist. He glanced over his shoulder and found her expression not of alarm but like that of a sleep walker. His head swirled with heavy magic as though he'd drank too much ale.

"Miss Savage!" he said sharply.

She rubbed the heel of her hand into one of her eyes. "Where are you taking me?"

They entered the kitchens. Lucas had been eating his midday meal at the long table in front of the fire. With one look from from Childermass, the young footman grabbed what remained of his meat pie and silently exited from the room. Childermass sat her in a chair by the fire and stoked the flames. Water was in the kettle so hastily he brewed her a cup of tea.

She stared numbly into the sandstone hearth. "Why are we here? I thought you'd brought me back to my rooms?"

Childermass did not reply but wrapped her frigid hands around the cup. He held his hands over hers a moment longer than necessary. The physical touch brought her back to her senses and her eyes cleared. She peered up at him, her lips parting in confusion.

"What are we doing here? How did we get here?" she breathed. Her hazel eyes widened in horror. "Am I going mad?"

"Drink," he coaxed, helping her lift the cup.

After taking a drink, she inhaled the aromatic steam and relaxed. Childermass loosed her, letting a hand rest briefly on her shoulder if only to reassure himself that she was well. He sank into the chair next to her, relieved to find his dizziness was fading.

"I am sorry, I do not know what came over me," she murmured. Her brow creased. "Did I already say that?"

"Pray, Miss Savage, may I ask you a couple questions?" Childermass leaned forward and perched his arms on his thighs. "What can you tell me about your father? Particularly his death?"

She set down the cup, her hand trembling. "It was an accident. The inquest found it so."

"What did you tell them about it? Do you remember anything...strange?"

Her eyes lit with recollection. "Odd that you ask that. Something did happen that I didn't remember until much later. I regretted not telling the authorities."

"Did you see something?"

"No, I heard something." She pulled her maroon shawl over her slender shoulders. "I was passing my father's library and something strange happened. My candle almost blew out but there was no breeze, it was just...the darkness. It closed in so tight I thought it would snuff the light completely. The house moaned the way it did when the storms came off the sea in the autumn. Then there were voices coming from the library. It was my father-"

"And who else?"

Mercy squinted as she struggled to remember. "No...no that cannot be. He was alone, he was always alone when he was in his study. I was rarely allowed in though I never had much interest in his work. Whatever work it was that he did. Mr. Norrell was the first to tell me today that his many books were on English magic." She shook her head sadly and stared down into the cup. "Such a pointless pursuit."

Childermass sat up and rested an arm on the table. "Perhaps not entirely pointless, Miss Savage."

She looked up at him. "Surely you are not of that same mind as Norrell. You seem..."

"To originate from a base upbringing?" He smirked, expecting her to have the same thoughts as the rest of her class about his rough appearance.

She shook her head. "No, too well grounded. Capable. Not like Norrell or my father for that matter. You're the kind of man with a mind of his own and the will to execute it. You wouldn't be caught up in the childish fairy tales of the dark ages. Or are you?"

Childermass lifted his eyebrows in mild surprise and took her in with new eyes. She was more perceptive than she had let on. Perhaps she wasn't the primping, empty headed heiress she appeared to be. "I will show you back to your rooms now. You had little fainting spell but it has passed."

She rose to her feet and he followed suit. "Thank you for your concern, Childermass. It is a comfort to have someone to talk to here. May I ask, might we shake hands in friendship?"

Her request caught him off guard. A unmarried, young woman of the upper class asking for friendship from someone of his station, it wasn't heard of. He gave an uncomfortable grimace of a smile before taking her hand in his own. Neither of them looked each other in the eye but stared at their joined hands. Oddly, he found himself reluctant to let go and she made no move on her part.

Childermass cleared his throat and retreated a step. "You should return to your room to rest before supper. I'll see that Mr. Norrell joins you this evening for dinner. He owes you that much at least."

After leaving Miss Savage in her sitting room, Childermass returned to the library. Norrell was bent over one of his newly acquired books, his lips moving silently as he read. Childermass came to stand in front of him where he sat in his chair.

"Where were you? That took a little overlong." Norrell spoke without tearing his eyes from the page.

"What do you know of Mr. Edward Savage's dealings with faerie?"

Norrell peered up at him and took the spectacles from his beady eyes. "What do you know?"


	10. A Book of Faerie

**Yorkshire, England 1785**

"So you see when the shelves are complete-" Gilbert Norrell lifted a hand from the leafy sheet of plans and waved towards the end of the room.

"Oh, I see. It's brilliant, Gilbert. Simply brilliant." Edward Savage clapped his friend's shoulder and gave him a crooked smile. "I don't believe I'll be able to compete."

Gilbert Norrell gave a shrug and a barely concealed grin of pleasure. "Well, you may try, Edward. You always do."

Edward Savage gave a light laugh and meandered farther into the library of Hurtfew Abbey. Half the shelves were already fitted to the stones, Gilbert's collection of books of magic filling them. He removed his spectacles and cleaned them with a handkerchief. Making a slow circle, he shook his head in awe.

"This will truly be a marvel, Gilbert. You will be the premier magician of the north, both the York and Manchester Societies will be clambering for invitations."

Gilbert shifted uncomfortably and folded the floor plans neatly under his arm. "Oh I don't know about that, you were always better in dealing with other magicians than me."

"Perhaps you shall marry?" Edward grinned in his direction. "A woman of social bearing who can do your entertaining for you so all you must do is practice your magic."

Hesitating, Gilbert wet his lips before he answered. Of late, it seemed many of his acquaintances were pressuring him to procure a wife. Ever since he had come into his inheritance at Hurtfew one year earlier, he had been avoiding the question. As a budding magician, the first practical one in England in centuries, he wondered if it would be right for him to marry. His profession would always come first before any woman, even though only Edward and a few others knew of his skills. As of yet. In time, Gilbert had plans to bring English magic back from the dead, single handed if need be though he knew he'd have Edward by his side. And Mary.

"I have been waiting for nearly half an hour." She appeared in the doorway of the library, her light brown curls teased up in the latest fashion. One strand was brilliant white and had been since their childhood. If anything, it only added to her beauty. "I had hoped to venture to York this afternoon and here you both are with these silly books."

Gilbert ignored her slight of his beloved library. He smiled genuinely as he gave Mary Stewart a nod. "We are about finished."

Mary sighed and widened her gray eyes. "Then come along!"

She flounced out of sight, her footsteps echoing down the hall outside.

"Has she always been like that?" Edward asked with a bemused grin. "Even when you were both children?"

Gilbert gave a breathy laugh. "Always. She dragged me through more mud puddles and across more windy moors than I care to recall."

Gilbert Norrell had been a lonely child until he'd been introduced to his distant cousin, Mary Norrell Stewart. She had brought life and energy into his solitary existence. Having been spoiled by her widower father, she had grown up with none of the social restraints other girls her age had endured. It did nothing to hamper her social conquests, she was the star of every dinner party and the most sought after dancing partner at balls. But she was always Gilbert's own Mary.

"She certainly is a wonder." Edward Savage commented idly.

Gilbert stiffened at his tone and glanced over at his dearest friend from school, the only other man who understood the practical application of magic. Edward's jaw was slack with the corner of his mouth lifted as he studied where Mary had just stood.

Gilbert cleared his throat and started towards the door. "She is a foolish thing though, Edward. She'd never step foot in here unless forced. Or open a book. She'd much rather be riding the moors like a wildling."

Edward replaced the spectacles on his face, the rims perched on his high, angular cheek bones. He peered down at a pile of volumes to be shelved and ran his fingers over the cover of one. "Do you know...have you heard of her interest in any gentleman-"

"Most certainly not," Gilbert snapped and quickly scoffed to cover his alarm. "And God help any man who does catch her."

"May I borrow this one?" Edward lifted a slim book that appeared of little consequence.

It was a funny little examination of faerie and the magicians who called their supernatural servants from there. Gilbert only wanted to distract Edward from the topic of Mary Stewart, even if it meant lending out one of his books.

"Of course, please do," Gilbert replied before starting towards the door. "Perhaps when we bring Mary to town, we can stop and see if the sellers have anything new."

Edward tucked the book into his jacket with a laugh. "I believe I'll need to do so, this new library of yours is making me nervous. Though I will never be the magician you are destined to be, Gilbert. You truly have a gift."

Gilbert feigned humility and waved off the comment. "Thank you, Edward."

Edward lifted his eyebrows. "Perhaps I should marry well just to keep up with you."


	11. A Bargain

**The Sargasso Sea, 1786**

Outside the ship, the waves were calm and the wind only a breath. The silence only made Mary's cries sharper as they reverberated through the vessel. 00The three other women on board aided her best they could, but the child was early and coming feet first.

"I don't know much about child birthing, sir," the cook's wife said, wringing her blood stained hands. Edward stood before her, sweating in the tropical heat still trapped below deck despite the nightfall. "But, from what I seen, such babes do not live and the mothers...well..."

Nodding furiously, Edward tore the glasses from his face and wiped them clean on his shirt. "So you are saying what? There is nothing to be done for my wife?"

The woman's fleshy lips dropped open but she had no words, only her large blue eyes filled with tears. Edward waved a hand, dismissing her silently. He had no capacity to comfort her grief when his own raged in his chest.

However, Edward Savage was not the type of man accept the inevitable. He got what he wanted. He fought for the legitimacy of his claim in Jamaica from a dead relative and had inherited the wealth there. He had fought through his guilt towards his friend Gilbert, the man's love for Mary Stewart never having been declared, and asked for Mary's hand himself. Gilbert had severed all ties with both of them followed the wedding announcement.

His mind whipped from one possible answer to the next. Magic of course would be the best course of action. But what kind? He dived down into the belly of the ship where the crates holding his precious books of magic were held. He tore open the cover of one, ripping his shirt on the wooden shards. With steady hands, he dug through them until he came upon the strange little volume that he had never returned to Gilbert. It was simply titled _Summoning and Binding_. He flipped through the chapters, crouched beside the crate. Mary let out another wail and it echoed through the ship. He swallowed down the frantic terror that rose up in his throat and focused on the words in the chapter he read.

He struck a flint and lit the single candle he'd brought with him, murmuring a few words as flame caught.

"What do you want of me, magician?"

Edward sprung to his feet and blinked in awe. A man clad in an armored chest piece with an oxblood cape stood before him, his yellow hair glowing in the dark hold of the ship. Blood smeared his cheeks and his gaze feral.

"I was only celebrating the slaying of my brother in battle. I am that much closer to the throne of Untold-Blessings and you call me away from my fete."

Edward struggled to catch his breath as another scream erupted above them. The prince glared above him with disdain.

"What is this place? It smells like animals."

"I have need of your magic," Edward began tentatively, his hands gripping the open book till his knuckles turned white. "I need you to save my wife."

The prince grinned. "I gather the banshee screaming above us is the lady in question?"

Edward nodded. "She is in labor with our baby."

"Do you wish me to save the child as well?"

"If it is possible, yes."

The fairy nodded grimly. "That will cost you greatly, magician. But I can do what you ask if you are willing to pay."

"Anything, please-"

The fairy held up a hand. "Be careful, mortal, with the words you use among myself and my kin. They may come back to haunt you."

Edward took a shaky breath. "What is it you want?"

The fairy shifted on his feet, moving the silver helmet from one arm to the other as he considered the proposition. He smiled coolly. "I am not like my brothers, I am not snobbish when it comes to my liaisons. And among my people, I am not interested in any of the women. They are all the same, beautiful and dangerous, fodder for human kings. But mortal women...they have always been my weakness. Tell me, your wife... is she beautiful?"


	12. A Fortune Told

**London, England, 1811**

Mary's trip to the market the following week proved much less eventful. There was even fresh herring at the fishmonger's stand for Mrs. Strange's pie. Despite the sunshine and the air warming with the promise of spring, Mary felt a deep chill in her heart. She had not slept well since the street magician had given her an unwanted and foreboding prophecy.

Jeremy had insisted that she had nothing to fear, that he knew the man as Vinculus, a vagabond popular among the gentry but with no grounding as a proper magician. Nothing like their employer. Jeremy was set to follow Mr. Strange to the Iberian Peninsula and join the fight against Napoleon. Magic was to enter the front lines of war and Jeremy felt himself an expert on the subject. He wasn't a bad sort but Mary was weary of tolerating his inflated speeches on the subject. She had too much to do around the house for Mrs. Strange in preparation for her husband's departure.

"Seems Mr. Norrell is visiting," Jeremy observed as they approached the square.

The man's fine carriage sat out front. Mary grimaced. Mrs. Strange had a particular dislike for her husband's teacher. Mary had only seen the man once from afar and agreed with her mistress. Norrell was a neat, fussy, little man who did not give the impression that his reputation boasted as England's greatest magician.

They cut around to the servant's entrance at the back of the house. The kitchens were over warm as the cook and other house maid were in a tizzy preparing tea for finicky Mr. Norrell. Mary removed her bonnet and gloves then hung up her rough, woolen cloak. Despite the roaring fire, her extremities felt like ice.

"Was the herring good this week?" the cook, Mrs. Bloom, asked as she unwrapped the brown paper and smelled it.

"Of course it is," Mary declared. "Do you think I would buy it otherwise?"

The other maid, Sarah, directed a playful wink at Mary. "Of course not, you and your fine airs wouldn't allow it."

A low chuckle came from the corner. Mary turned as she tied her apron around her waist. A man, scruffy about the jaw with ragged black hair tied loosely in a queue, was reclining in a chair against the wall. He pulled a pipe from the pocket of his black garrick coat and chewed on the stem thoughtfully, his gaze honed on the herring as it was deboned by Mrs. Bloom's nimble fingers.

"Who are you?" Jeremy asked disdainfully.

"He is Mr. Norrell's man of business. Mind your manners." Mrs. Bloom swatted Jeremy with an oily hand.

Mr. Norrell's servant shifted to cross his long legs. His heavy lidded eyes lifted to Mary.

"So what do you do exactly as Mr. Norrell's man of business?" Jeremy asked.

"This and that." The man didn't take his eyes from Mary as he answered. She looked away, feeling flushed.

"I've heard tell that you read fortunes," Sarah commented with a flirty grin. "Like those magicians with their yellow tents used to do."

"You mean the ones Norrell drove from the city?" Jeremy scoffed. He straightened his shoulders and crossed his arms over his chest. "I'm going to be journeying with Mr. Strange to the peninsula, to fight the French with magic."

"Are you now?" The man replied dryly.

"Would you read my fortune?" Sarah asked, prancing over.

"Shameless girl," Mrs. Bloom muttered as she took the kettle from the hearth.

Mary remained by the table arranging the tray for tea, her focus centered entirely on her task. The air hummed with an electricity that emanated from the man in the corner. It was nearly impossible for her to ignore. She was stunned the others hadn't noticed.

After a long silence, she dared a glance in his direction and met eyes once more. Jeremy's babbling, Mrs. Bloom's grousing and Sarah's flirtations muted as though they were underwater. Or perhaps she was the one submerged. A memory flickered into her mind's eye. A handshake between friends and a cup of tea. The scene changed to the night stained window of a carriage, a pair of warm arms holding her tightly as they bounced down a country road.

Mary ripped herself from the stranger's trance. Those images were only from dreams, she reminded herself. But why had they felt so real?

"I'll read that young lady's fortune," he spoke.

Mary did not need to look over to know he meant her. There was the feathery shuffle of worn paper as Norrell's man mixed a deck of old cards in his ink smudged hands. Mary's heart dropped to her stomach when she noticed that the backs of them matched the card she had stashed in her purse.

A footman for the carriage stuck his head into the kitchen. "Childermass, the master is ready."

The man servant named Childermass rose to his feet and tucked his hat under his arm. He slipped the deck of cards into his pocket.

"Evening to you all." He nodded to the room but ignored Mary, his thick Yorkshire accent rolling over them like fog.

"Isn't that the way of it, eh? We spend all that time and energy into making the man a fine tea and he leaves without a drop," Mrs. Bloom said after he'd left.

"The mistress won't be happy," Sarah chirped. "Though I do wish we could have seen some magic. I wish you had let him read your fortune, Mary."

"I don't believe Mary needs any more counterfeit fortunes." Jeremy stepped protectively behind Mary.

She tried not to roll her eyes and picked up the tray to bring the tea out to Mrs. Strange. The porcelain rattled as her hands trembled. Mrs. Bloom gave her a concerned glance.

"It's only a little heavy," Mary explained before excusing herself into the coolness of the stairway leading up to the front rooms.

After delivering the tea to Mrs. Strange in her sitting room, her mistress clearly grateful that her guest had left, Mary paused in the hall outside. She rubbed her hands together, trying to quell the inexplicable fear rising in her chest. She fished her purse from under her apron and pulled out the tattered card. The letters on the back that had been etched into the tavern bill were clear in the candle light from a nearby sconce.

C-H-I-L-D

Childermass had been the man's name. Mary shivered as the candle next to her flared and the bells from the nearby church tolled the hour.


	13. A Silver Basin

**Yorkshire, England 1805**

Childermass was unusually attentive as he led her to the library the next morning. He glanced over his shoulder several times to make certain Mercy was following close behind. She had tread the passages of Hurtfew Abbey long enough to know better than to wander away. Mercy was surprised when he had appeared at her door soon after breakfast with word that Mr. Norrell wished to meet her in the library.

Her fashionable pin curls were pulled back lightly by Sarah, her new personal maid who had arrived from York the previous evening. The playful girl had been waiting her rooms when she had returned from dinner with Mr. Norrell. It had been a relief to have some diverting company after suffering through an hour's worth of stale conversation with her guardian, Childermass sitting by the hearth with a suppressed grin at Norrell's attempts at socializing.

While picking at her roast partridge, Mercy had struggled not to let her gaze drift over to the man servant but he fascinated her. He was the oddest servant she had ever met, not at all what she would expect in a gentleman's valet or butler. He glowering and saucy yet indispensable to Norrell for his keen judgments.

Mercy followed Childermass into the library, the room bright despite the gloom outside. It was the perfect reading light and she couldn't understand where it originated from as the candles were sparse and low burning.

"Miss Savage to see you," Childermass announced lazily. He walked to his desk at the back of the room and left her standing in front of the fire.

Norrell was poring over a book by the hearth, his finger tracing a line where he sat on an octagonal table. "Please come in, Miss Savage. Have a seat."

Mercy arranged herself on a hard wooden chair by the fire and folded her hands neatly in her lap. Norrell finally looked up at her with a quick smile and took the spectacles from his face. He fiddled with them as he came to stand in front of her.

"I wish to apologize again for my behavior yesterday," he said. His tone wasn't sincere as much as it was guarded. He studied her gravely, his brows tightening in thought.

Mercy looked away towards the fire. "Please, do not vex yourself any further. I am sorry for my own actions. It was most untoward of me to lose my temper thus."

"Perhaps." Norrell shrugged. "But Miss Savage, I called you here to discuss about something very important. I understand you are ignorant in these matters so I will be patient and as _succinct_ as possible in my explanation." Childermass gave a dry cough at this comment. Mercy wondered if it was to mask a chuckle. "But you must listen and try to understand the best you can. Are you comfortable? Would you like a cup of chocolate perhaps?"

Mercy pursed her lips to ward away a smirk. "Very comfortable, thank you. Pray, continue."

Norrell played with the wire frame on his spectacles. "You see, Miss Savage, the proper study of English magic takes many years and requires dedication. I used to devote more than eight hours a day to the sole study of one magician or another. I thought to perhaps draw up a plan for the next year so that you may come to a better understanding so that your circumstance might be resolved-"

"Excuse me. I apologize for my interruption but my circumstance?" Mercy asked.

Norrell coughed into his fist nervously. "You see, I have come to the belief that you are under an enchantment, a product of your father's meddling-"

"Enchantment?" Mercy laughed lightly but silenced when Norrell gave her a pointed glare. "I'm truly sorry but what makes you think something like that? I have already informed you, Mr. Norrell, though I respect your own pursuit of magical study, I do not believe in it myself."

"It's irrelevant whether you believe in it or not, Miss Savage," Norrell snapped irritably. "Heaven help us, you are as taxing as your mother."

"Perhaps," Childermass spoke. He rose from the desk and looked towards his master, the candlelight bringing out the strands of dark red in his black hair. "Perhaps it would be best to show the young lady instead of telling her?"

Norrell perched a finger on his chin in thought then marched over to the octagonal table. He lifted a hand towards Mercy. "Come here, Miss Savage."

Mercy rose from her seat and tentatively joined him. Childermass approached them with a silver pitcher. A gleaming basin sat at the center of the table. Norrell neatened the books and papers strewn around it as Childermass poured water into the basin. Mercy tugged her shawl tighter around her shoulders, her fingers tingling in that persistent way she found happening more often since arriving at the abbey.

"Now, Miss Savage, do you have a friend whose company you miss? Someone from Jamaica perhaps?" Norrell asked.

Mercy's forehead creased. "Our neighbor Mrs. Waters was always kind."

"Mrs. Waters then. Think on her and watch the water."

Norrell drew an X at the center of the basin, his finger leaving a stream of light. Mercy blinked to make sure the light wasn't playing tricks on her eyes. Norrell lifted his hands, eyes closed, and murmured silently words that Mercy could not make out.

"Oh my..." Mercy breathed as an image appeared on the water's surface.

It was the grand house where her friend lived. The picture sped down one of the halls and shimmered through a closed door. It was evening and a low fire burned in the hearth. Mrs. Waters was sleeping in her bed, her mouth ajar with a silvery line of drool down her cheek.

Mercy let out a bark of a laugh. "B-but it's extraordinary! How...?"

"Anyone else?" Norrell gave her a grin of delight, the first she'd seen on the man since arriving, his blue eyes dancing.

"You mean you can find anyone with this...magic mirror of yours?"

"Anyone and anywhere."

Mercy rubbed her hands together. "Yes, why not... Sarah, my new lady's maid?"

"Very well."

Norrell made the X in the water once more and repeated the incantation. Mercy snorted as the image surfaced and peered up at Norrell's red face. Sarah was pushing the footman Lucas into a darkened corner of the kitchen in a most scandalous fashion then proceeded to kiss the young man. Norrell grimaced and cleared his throat. Mercy averted her eyes, barely repressed wild laughter bubbling up inside her.

"Childermass-" Norrell squeaked out.

"I will speak with Lucas, sir," Childermass groused darkly. He briefly met Mercy's eye and she caught a gleam of amusement in his gaze.

The scene faded and once again the basin of water was itself again. Mercy shook her head in wonder. "What a marvel."

"So you see now?"

"Yes." She nodded fervently. "I had no idea this was what my father was doing in his study all those years. He kept me so sheltered."

"Which is the reason why I am so perplexed by your apparent condition, Miss Savage," Norrell said, pulling a book out of a nearby stack and flipping through it. "I have been reading all I could on the matter this morning but I've yet to find any answers. Whatever enchantment you are under, Childermass seems to believe it causes you to forget it ever happened. It was only luck that he walked you to your room yesterday and was able to witness the phenomenon first hand otherwise we'd never have known."

"It could have something to do with faerie magic," Childermass commented, staring contemplatively into the basin.

"Yes but we can't be sure, Childermass," Norrell corrected. "There is no knowing what Edward unleashed on you, my dear."

"But my father would never have done anything to hurt me," Mercy protested, gripping the edges of her shawl.

"No, but he could be as impulsive as your mother. It must have been an accident, whatever it was," Norrell said and looked up at her. "Though we might be able to gather more clues if we cast a spell of our own over you. One to help you remember what happens when you are under an enchantment."

Mercy shifted in her silken slippers uncomfortably and moved towards the warmth of the fire. "What do you mean by a spell? Will it hurt?"

"No, of course not. But it will help, I believe."

Mercy lifted her chin and glanced at Childermass. He gave a grave nod. She sighed. "Then perform your magic, Mr. Norrell."


	14. A Little English Rain

It had been a painless process. In fact, after witnessing the wonder of Mr. Norrell's basin, Mercy was somewhat disappointed at how mundane the magic was that Mr. Norrell performed on her. He stood before her, a book cracked open in one hand and the other waving in slow circles around her face while he murmured nonsensically. And then it was over, no sparks or dizzying colors flashing before her eyes. Afterwards, he had situated her at a desk in the back of the room where Childermass had been working the previous day. Childermass dropped a stack of books next to her with a pot of ink and a few pieces of scratch paper.

"If you truly wish to understand the magic your are under, you should begin with the foundations of the study," Norrell explained. "This particular book is a very informative piece of work, start with it."

Mercy winced as she read the title. It was a biographical work documenting the life of a lesser magician who was the brother of a greater one. She had been educated but never claimed to be a great pupil. In truth, Mercy was not fond of reading, not when there was a game of cards to be played or a walk to be taken but she didn't argue. This was her only chance to understand the surprising legacy her father had left her.

After a half an hour of slogging through the tedious work, Mercy leaned her cheek on the heel of her hand. With a sigh, she leaned back in her chair and let her eyes wander. The shelf next to her was filled with her father's books that needed to be rebound. A slim volume was propped up at the bottom, the cover a shade of rusty oxblood. Mercy arched a brow in interest. Glancing over her shoulder to make sure that the men were sufficiently distracted, she snatched the book from the shelf. It had a simple title, _Summoning and Binding_. She began to read.

It was about Faerie and the beings that inhabited those lands. The initial chapters were about human interactions with fairies, how magicians of the past had harnessed those creatures dwelling in the other world and used them for their own purposes. And yet, despite how fantastic it all seemed, there was always a price to dealing with a fairy and a heavy one. The final chapters were about the proper etiquette in dealing with the beings and how to cut deals that benefited the mortal.

"That is not the book you were given to read," a voice growled low behind her. Mercy whipped around to find Childermass standing over her with his typical glowering expression. He lowered his heavy brows as he studied the open book on her desk. "Is that one of your father's books? I do not recognize it."

"I believe so," Mercy replied in a whisper with a wary glance towards the hearth where Mr. Norrell sat immersed his work. "The other book was... dull."

Childermass's expression did not change as he stared down at her. With a sigh, he leaned over and gently took _Summoning and Binding_. He flipped through the pages and paused to read one, while Mercy fiddled with her fine pen. Childermass glanced up at her, his mouth twisting in thought and a strand of hair falling over his right eye.

"I believe it would be wise for you to continue in the work you were given," he said, pocketing the book.

Mercy sat up in her seat. "But what you said about fairy magic being the cause of my enchantment, might that book have something to do with it?"

"There are many books in this library about fairies, Miss Savage. But I promise, I shall delve deeper into this one. It sparks my interest as well." He patted the back of her chair, his leathery fingertips grazing the fine lace of her chemisette at her shoulder, before returning to Norrell.

Biting her lower lip, Mercy smirked as she glanced towards the shelf of books next to her once more. She grabbed another and read it in her lap. It proved to be much more interesting as well about the Raven King's secret written language that had never been deciphered in the moral realm.

Mr. Norrell had their midday meal brought to them in the library and insisted Mercy study while she ate.

"How are you enjoying Tott's works?" Norrell had asked, his eyes narrowing as he inspected her desk.

Mercy had been sketching a series of wolf figures along the edge of her paper. They chased ink blots and a crude figure of a deer around her sparse notes. She quickly hit it under the book. "Quite...diverting."

"Tott is not to be found diverting, Miss Savage."

"Oh no, that was the wrong choice of words," she apologized, wetting her lips. "I meant informative."

Norrell nodded vaguely, turning once more to the papers in his own hands. Mercy glanced behind him. Childermass was leaning against a large step ladder, engrossed in another book. He looked up from a page of _Summoning and Binding_ and met her eyes. Mercy turned away from his dark, thoughtful gaze.

"You may be excused for the day, Miss Savage," Mr. Norrell said reaching out for the dull biography. She flushed as he noted how little progress she had made in it. "I expect more dedication from you come tomorrow. I cannot stress to you the seriousness of your condition."

"Thank you, Mr. Norrell. I promise to apply myself better tomorrow," she replied as she stood, her legs stiff from sitting for so long.

When she returned to her room, Sarah was cheerfully laying out a nice tea for her with scones and lemon cake. Mercy stifled a grin as she sat down by the fire. "Thank you, Sarah. Tell me, how are you adjusting to the abbey?"

"Very well, Miss. Though it is a haunting old place," Sarah answered as she built up the fire.

Mercy poured herself a cup of tea. "And the other servants... have they been welcoming?"

Sarah paused but did not turn around. "They are country people to be sure but very kind."

"The young footman Lucas is a nice young man," Mercy added subtly.

Standing, Sarah wrung her hands in front of her, her mouth twisting between delight and concern. "What have you... I mean, has anyone-"

"The news about your liaison with him came to me quite by accident, but it would be in your best interest to keep your trysts secret as possible in the future," Mercy said before sipping her tea. "I do not mind, of course, but my guardian may take offense."

"Yes, Miss." Sarah bobbed a curtsy. "I am sorry if I embarrassed you. My mother always said I was born with too much of the devil in me. But Lucas with that Yorkshire accent, like out of a novel by Mrs. Radcliffe, and his wild, dark eyes, it was almost too much-"

"Yes, of course." Mercy cut her off with a nervous laugh. "Yes, you don't need to explain, Sarah. I understand you."

Perhaps she understood her maid's weakness a little too well. She recalled the feel of Childermass's hands as they wrapped around hers and held the cup of tea to her mouth, how one moment he could have all his attention on her then the next act as though she wasn't in the room at all. Mercy fought the impulse to slap her own cheek to bring herself back to her senses. He was a servant, rough and well below her station. And someone she had only just met. Why did she feel so drawn to John Childermass?

"Miss?"

Mercy blinked up at Sarah. "I'm sorry, you may go, Sarah. Thank you."

* * *

Norrell shook his head as he scanned Miss Savage's messy notes. He scattered them on the table before the hearth. Childermass was leaning against the mantle, staring into the flames. The wind whipped through the trees, the ancient oaks groaning as they swayed in the blustery night.

"She is as quixotic as her mother," Norrell sank into one of the chairs. "Mary never could sit for long at her studies. I had hoped the young lady would have inherited something from Edward, but perhaps feminine weakness is to blame. A shame that she had not been a boy, I should have liked to take a son of Edward for a pupil. Help bring him to better things than his father."

Childermass wandered over to the table and ran his fingers over her papers, his touch pausing at the drawing of the hunting wolves and wounded stag. The book in his pocket felt heavier. He retrieved it and flipped through the pages. Something fell out of the back and whispered to the floor.

"What do you have there?" Norrell leaned over and picked the small oval slip from the threadbare rug. He jaw slackened as he studied it.

"What is it?"

Norrell shook his head and tried to tuck it into his pocket but Childermass moved to the arm of his chair. It was a miniature painting of a beautiful girl with light brown curls and gray eyes.

"Who-"

Norrell cleared his throat. "It is Mercy's mother. This was my own, Mary had one done for me before I left for school. I sent it back to her and Edward when they announced their plans."

"To be married?"

"Of course to be married," Norrell snapped.

"She was very beautiful."

"Miss Savage takes after her a little but she has her father's fox-like countenance, those greenish eyes and smirking mouth. She's quite a vexing girl is Miss Savage." Norrell groused miserably. "Where did this come from?"

Childermass revealed _Summoning and Binding_. "It was among the collection from Edward Savage's library."

"But it is not Edward's book. It was the one and only book I imparted to him but he never returned it." Norrell's voice became very small. Childermass held it out to Norrell but the man only frowned into the fire. "It was nothing of consequence. Just return it to the shelf where you found it. I wish for a pot of chocolate, I feel a chill coming on."

Childermass nodded and left his side. However, he tucked the book into his pocket where the sheet with Mercy's drawing was hidden as well.

* * *

The next afternoon was drearier than the last with a persistent rain pelting the library windows. Thankfully, though a hermit set in his solitary ways among his books, Mr. Norrell was not above taking pleasure in small ways. After fighting to stay awake through her studies on the most uneventful existence of Horace Tott, a magician who led a long life never achieving what he set out to do, Mr. Norrell had called on Lucas for a frothing pot of chocolate and a plate of iced rout cakes. This revived her somewhat but did not completely take away the painful trudge of Tott's sad little life.

Childermass was absent. She had fought the impulse to ask after him, distracted as she was from her tedious reading. Finally, after an hour of silence, Norrell mentioned in passing that Childermass would be back later that evening. He had set him out on a errand to York to retrieve a few more books that he had heard tell of that might help them decipher the mystery surrounding Mercy.

"He rode through this weather?" Mercy sipped her cup of chocolate, batting her eyes innocently towards the fire and attempting to keep her tone detached.

"Childermass is quite capable of performing his duties under any circumstance."

"Will he not catch cold?"

Norrell smirked down at his book. "I should think not. I do not know much of my servant's previous life but I can guarantee he has survived much harsher elements than a little English rain."

Mercy pressed her lips together to keep from asking more questions. She feared Norrell would grow suspicious of her interest and inquire of it. She didn't quite understand her interest in the man, only that the library seemed even more dismal without him in it.

To her chagrin, Mr. Norrell insisted that she take the book to her rooms to study later that evening. She tried to decline, saying that she didn't dare risk the text outside the library where anything could happen to it. Mr. Norrell had hesitated and for a moment she though she was relieved of the obligation but he quickly said he trusted her as long as it didn't leave the abbey.

Mercy tapped her fingers on the cover while Sarah brushed out and braided her curls before bed. Her bedchamber was lit by a single candle and the popping hearth, shadows trembling off the four poster bed and thick, night blue curtains around it.

"Is it really that dull? I shouldn't think a book of magic would be as horrid as you describe," Sarah said as she tied off Mercy's braid with a blood red, satin ribbon.

Mercy rose from the vanity chair, holding the book at her hip. "It is possibly the worst thing I have ever read."

Sarah scoffed as she helped remove Mercy's dressing gown, the folds of her nightgown bunched up around her knees as she got under the covers. Sarah slipped a pan filled with warm coals under the pallet to ward off the damp chill of the rainy night.

"I should like to read one of them for myself someday. I enjoy a good novel." Sarah sighed as she smoothed out the blankets.

"Then you would not enjoy this." Mercy flipped it open to the page marker. "Though not all of the books in the library are so dull. I believe Mr. Norrell hoards the ones with anything of interest for himself."

"I don't doubt it. The man appears to me both a hermit and a miser." Sarah laughed but pressed her lips together. "I apologize, that was too bold of me."

Mercy arched her eyebrows in amusement. "Perhaps but no less true."

Sarah left her mistress to her studies. Mercy mused quietly that the girl was probably off to meet Lucas in one of the back hallways for a midnight tryst. She sunk deep into her pillows and tried not to feel envious. She laughed silently at herself and set the book aside, her eyelids drooping. Closing the bed curtains, she slipped into a feather light sleep.

A deep tolling reverberated through the house, like that of a giant, ancient bell tower. It roused Mercy to consciousness. She pulled back the bed curtain, unsure if it had only been a dream. The fire had burned down to a cushion of embers. The door between her bedchamber and the sitting room was cracked open and an unearthly, silver glow emanated from behind it. Without reaching for a dressing coat, Mercy pulled her slippers onto her feet. The floorboards were like ice as she inched towards the door and opened it.


	15. A Red Ribbon

Birch trees knitted a canopy beneath a black sky without a star. Snow fell in thick blossoms, Mercy's feet sank into the drifts gathering in the forest. She passed under the archway of birches into the wood. Strangely, she noted how little the cold bothered her despite the fact that she only wore her night gown.

Despite the lack of moon and other heavenly bodies, the snow reflected light that had no visible source. The unearthly glow filled the air and showed Mercy her way through the wood. Her senses muddled, she assumed she was still dreaming. She was certain there was no wintry forest secreted in her sitting room, no matter how romantic Hurtfew Abbey appeared.

A wolf howled and Mercy halted. She wrapped her arms around her torso and squinted in the faint light, dread filling her heart at the sound of panting animal breath and hoof beats in the snow. A flash of white screamed across the dark landscape, a white stag bleeding from it's haunches as it struggled against the wind. Dark shapes loped after it, their snouts tasting the blood in the air. One paused and turned in Mercy's direction.

True fear struck her to the core as it moved towards where she stood. Large paws padded through the snow, keen intelligence not of a common beast gleaming in it's eyes. Mercy blinked, willing herself to awaken but nothing changed. The wolf cocked it's head to the side then lowered itself to the snow. Gnashing it's bloodied teeth, the wolf leaped towards her only to be impaled by a silver lance as it hissed through the air. The animal fell at her feet, it's breath coming out in soggy gasps, pink bubbling around it's mouth.

A man strode out of the darkness, his silver breastplate gleaming and oxblood cape trembling around his shoulders. He removed his helm, yellow hair in a long silken fall around his face. His eyes were black pits as he stared down at the animal and shook his head. Bracing the near dead body with a boot, he retrieved the weapon.

"I have given you ample warning about threatening guests in my realm," he chided as though he spoke to a child.

Mercy realized he spoke to the wolf and not to her. She winced as he stomped down on the base of the animal's skull and it stopped breathing. After wiping the gore from the lance on the ground, the oxblood prince turned his attention on her.

"I am glad to find you safe, my lady," he said with a charming smile. Removing his cape, he tucked it around her shoulders, his fingers like cold marble.

He held out his hand and tentatively she took it. The violence she had witnessed was forgotten and the forest was not the ominous place that it had been earlier. Up ahead, she heard the sigh of a calm ocean. Lights flickered through the grove like those burning in windows, beckoning weary travelers with their warmth. It put to mind cozy hearths and hot spiced wine.

"I confess, I did not think to bring you here so soon but circumstances are accelerating at such a pace, I was inclined to spirit you to my realm," he said as they walked towards the lights.

"Is the place I see in the distance, is that your home?"

"It is. And I hope someday you may call it your home as well."

Mercy had grown used to his untoward replies so did not acknowledge his comment. "Why am I here right now?"

"I am holding a ball tonight. I told you I wanted to do so and invite you as guest of honor." He smirked in her direction as they trod onto an overgrown path. The jagged shadow of a crumbling castle loomed into view. "I thought whisking you away in the night would exempt you from having to answer any questions from your unfeeling guardian, the odious man."

Mercy wasn't sure if they walked the rest of the way or were transported by the icy wind to the front hall of the castle. The prince lifted a hand and a line of sconces lit themselves down the echoing hall. He led her towards the eerie screech of a flute and string duet. A ballroom opened up before them with shadows of guests that she could not clearly perceive in the low candlelight. They swept in rotating circles, they figures flowing like dark water. Again, the dread rose up in her heart.

"I fear I am not dressed for such an occasion, sir," she said taking her hand from him.

"But, my lady, you are more than appropriately attired."

She glanced over at him. The prince stood in his rich, oxblood dinner coat, the cravat at his throat smartly tied and his milkweed hair bound in a neat queue at his neck. Except for his inhuman beauty, Mercy swore he could have been mistaken for any fashionable gentleman of London society.

Peering past his shoulder towards a smoky mirror than hung on an ivy encrusted wall, she studied her reflection. Her nightgown was gone, replaced by an iridescent gown cut in the popular empire waist style. The beaded fabric could have been sewn from frost, the fringe along the sleeves and neckline more like ice than French lace. Her single braid that Sarah had done earlier hung over her shoulder, the red satin ribbon like a blood stain in the snow. Her fingers trailed along the curled bow and she recoiled, horror of where she stood and what she had witnessed gripping her heart.

The prince's hand grasped hers and she blinked into his handsome countenance. "It hurts me to see you so reviled in that house, that guardian of yours is more like a jailer, uncomely and cruel. There is no love for you at Hurtfew Abbey, is there?"

Mercy wet her lips and her heart stopped racing. "Well, Mr. Norrell is not exactly-"

"Kind." The prince cradled her hand. "My poor Miss Savage, how ill you are treated. And the servants to manhandle and debase you with their looks of dark intent, surely you are terrified to dwell in such a place."

Mercy's mind swirled. Perhaps Mr. Norrell was not the attentive father-figure she had once hoped to find in him but he wasn't cruel. Simply detached. And the servants with looks of dark intent, she knew he meant Childermass but she had never felt threatened by the man.

"Tell me, are you safe there, my lady," the prince persisted, bracing his hand against her neck. "Or you do believe you may be happier here with me in Untold-Blessings?"

The conflict within her swelled as the music reached a pitch. She was not particularly happy at Hurtfew Abbey but she wasn't ill treated. Or perhaps she was. Perhaps the thoughts crowding her head were true. Childermass was a villain with ill intentions like a ominous figure from a novel by Mrs. Radcliffe. Norrell was a heartless master who had stolen her father's works from her and now held her captive. Here with the prince in his cruel kingdom was the only place she could be truly loved and cherished.

"Tell me why I am here," she breathed.

The prince gently moved her towards the mirror. The reflection cleared to show her old bedchamber in their house in Jamaica. The small form of a child was fast asleep on a large bed while two men watched from the doorway. Edward Savage nervously cleaned his spectacles on his shirt, the strand of white hair over his ear. The other figure extended an elegant finger towards the child. A brown strand of hair peeking over the edge of the blanket curled white as snow.

"Your father struck a deal the night of your mother's death," the prince said. "He had to compensate for her loss. He had already bargained away half her life to me in return for saving her while she birthed you. You have been bound to me since you were four years old."

In stunned silence, her fingers moved of their own accord up to her braid, the red satin hair ribbon crumpling between them. Her mind cleared and she saw the abbey in the mirror's reflection. The maze-like passages, the sandstone kitchen hearth, the library. The prince took a step backwards, releasing his hold on her. The eerie music faded.

"I will return for what I am owed," he promised but Mercy did not look at him.

The vision in the mirror swept down the servants quarters and turned into an unfamiliar bedroom. A fire burned in the hearth, a wealth of books by the bed. It looked like the finer quarters of a butler or housekeeper. A person was slumped in a chair by the fire wearing muddy boots and shuffling a deck of tattered cards in his hands. A black patched coat hung over the back of the chair.

Mercy took a deep breath of the dusty air tinged with pipe smoke, her nightgown rustling around her legs as she took a mincing step forward. The room swayed as Childermass rose from his seat in surprise.

"Miss Savage?"

"Childermass," Mercy said calmly before she collapsed.


	16. A Glass of Madeira

His coat steamed by the fireplace after being drenched in the rain all day but it warmed Mercy just the same. She tucked her chin under the frayed collar, the scent of pipe smoke lingering in the air. The clock on the mantle ticked off the hour. It was much too late for her to be in a man's room alone but she couldn't bring herself to leave. Terror filled her at the thought of what she'd find in her sitting room, whether she'd slip between the folds of the world into that strange, violent country and never return.

Whatever magic Norrell had performed on her not only helped her remember everything that had occurred but also unearthed every time in the past she had met with the oxblood prince. He had never mentioned his name, but spoke to her with such familiarity it made her cringe. It was as though he were a lifelong acquaintance of her father's who had watched her grow from a small child. She sunk deeper into the coat as she realized he'd done exactly that.

The door behind her creaked open and Mercy sat up. Childermass walked into the room carrying a small amber glass of Madeira. "Here, Miss Savage. Drink this."

Mercy obeyed. She did not even feign to sip it, she merely downed it in one gulp. "You prescribed something stronger than tea this time."

"It seemed appropriate considering the circumstances." The sleeves of the linen shirt under his waist coat were damp at the shoulders and neck.

"Did you only just return from York?"

He arched his eyebrows in surprise. "How did you know I was in York?"

"Mr. Norrell told me." Mercy looked down into her empty glass. "Perhaps you should have just brought the bottle with you."

Childermass cleared his throat. "That would not have looked well, serving you a whole bottle of Madeira in my quarters at this time of night."

Mercy surprised both of them with a genuine laugh. "No, I suppose not. Though Mr. Norrell knows of my whereabouts?"

"He knows you appeared in my room but not that you are still here."

Mercy recalled the look of horror on Norrell's face when he'd seen Sarah and Lucas together in his silver basin. She agreed silently that it was best her guardian did not know she remained there.

"Would you like me to escort you back-"

"No." Mercy shook her head emphatically. "No, thank you. Not yet."

Childermass said nothing but dragged the chair from the small writing desk beside where she sat. A small table stood between them, the deck of worn cards lying on it. Mercy set the empty glass down on the table and rubbed her hands together, her knee bouncing as she stared blankly into the fire.

"Mr. Norrell is in his study now, I told him what you said about the faerie kingdom and the prince's bargain with your father," Childermass said sitting down beside her. "Have you remembered anything else?"

"No, only what I told you. This is not the first time he and I have met, I'm sure of that now. Though I do not not know what calls him to my side in the first place."

"You do not call him. You cannot unless you knew the proper spells. He comes of his own accord."

"Why hasn't he taken me yet then? What's stopping him?"

Childermass ran his fingers of his chin thoughtfully. "Perhaps the conditions of the bargain, something we do not know yet. But we know more now than we did yesterday."

Mercy peered across the room at the writing desk and saw another stack of books, larger than the one by his bed. "I have been curious, what is it you do exactly for Mr. Norrell?"

"This and that."

"Are you his pupil in magic as well as a servant?"

Childermass smirked. "No, but a magician like Mr. Norrell who does not like to leave the comfort of his library must have another means of operating his business in the wide world. I provide those means and he instructs me in a few spells to help me on my way."

"I conjecture you've picked up more than a few spells from the books in his library." Mercy shook her head. "I believe I would too and be able to help myself more if he would give me something other than Tott to read."

"We all must start somewhere, Miss Savage," Childermass replied meeting her eyes with a hint of a frown.

Mercy pursed her lips and looked away. "What are these you were playing with when I walked in? Do you like cards? I enjoy a game myself now and then."

Childermass reached out for the deck and shuffled them. "They are not like playing cards."

"What are they then?"

"Are you familiar with the cards of Marseilles?"

The Madeira now ran through her veins, muting the terror she had felt earlier. Mercy's knee stopped bouncing and she neatly folded her hands in her lap, shaking her head. "What are they for?"

He gave a secretive smirk and leaned forward towards the table. "For peering into the possible future."

Mercy shuddered. "Fortune telling? I'm not so certain I'd like to know my future."

"It may help, Miss Savage. Though I won't force you to it."

He tapped the edges of the cards on the table while she considered the offer. Something about his honesty made her trust him. Childermass was not the figure of dark intent as the oxblood prince had tried to convince her, he would not lead her awry. She nodded her acquiesce.

With steady fingers he layered eight cards before them. Mercy waited for him to wave his hands and murmur incantations like Norrell had but he was silent. Gently, he flipped the first row. The illustrations were hand drawn on odd scraps of paper, tavern bills and backs of book pages, depicting strange images, messy French text labeled them on the edges. Mercy had a difficult time translating them though she spoke French fluently.

"Well?" Mercy prompted after a moment, feeling impatient to hear his diagnosis.

Childermass brushed the first cards. "These say you have come from grief to a solitary existence."

"The hermit?" Mercy said reading one of them.

"Yes. Or perhaps it could reference Norrell."

"Yes that would be a fair description..."

He gave her a wry grin as they leaned forward over the table together, their knees almost brushing. "These foretell of a trickster, a confidence man of sorts in your present."

"And the devil card?"

"Symbolizes his ill intent."

"The fairy..." she murmured, though the description sounded very similar to what the oxblood prince had said of Childermass as well.

He flipped the first card on the final row. Two people intertwined, lovers it seemed, with a pair of goblets hovering over them. He cocked his head to the side as he considered it. "This represents another person in your life with whom you have an affinity with... a friend. A dear one."

Mercy swallowed. "So I am met by a hermit, a trickster and a friend following grief."

Childermass flipped the next two cards. He jutted out his jaw and his dark eyes narrowed. "There is an impending journey and separation in your future. You will be alone, very alone."

Mercy shivered and pulled his coat tighter about her as though by doing so it would keep him by her side a little longer. "That does not sound pleasant."

He didn't smile at her attempt at humor but flipped the last card. They both blinked down at it.

"I thought that the point of something like this was not to have multiples of the same card..." Mercy said.

Childermass mussed up the order of the cards, bringing the second card with the two cups to the center of the table. There were two cards with the lovers, the description reading _two of cups_ in french on the bottom.

"But that can't be, I made the pack myself, there is only one of each..."

Stupefied by the turn of events, he shuffled the deck again and laid each one out. At the end of it, they found that the duplicate two of cups card was missing. It had disappeared as quickly as it had slipped into her fortune.

"What could it mean?" Mercy asked quietly.

Childermass shook his head as he glared down at the table. "I cannot say."

The clock on the mantle chimed out midnight and Mercy jumped. However, there was no sudden appearance from faerie, no candles flaring or winter gusts from unknown drafts. Childermass tucked the cards into his waistcoat pocket and rose to his feet.

"It would be best if I showed you back to your rooms, Miss Savage."

Mercy followed him to the door. He was right of course. There was no way she could spend the whole night in his room. Nothing would be more scandalous even if it was to keep her from being stolen to Untold-Blessings. Mercy suppressed a grin at the thought of Norrell's horror should he ever find out how long she'd actually remained alone with Childermass. In complete view of his bed. Wearing only her nightgown and the man's coat. It was like something out of a novel about fallen women.

Without her asking, Childermass opened the door to the sitting room and peered around it. She waited a few steps away, tentative of what he would find. He sighed and shrugged towards her. "A very common sitting room. Nothing out of the ordinary."

Mercy tentatively stepped into the room. "Would you mind...the other chamber?"

Childermass gravely nodded and did as she asked, Mercy followed him into the dark. He walked over to the hearth and struck a fire that gave the room an eerie light. Standing at the foot of the bed, Mercy removed his coat from her shoulders and held it out to him.

"Thank you for you everything, Childermass." She held out her hand to him silently.

He hesitated before taking it. A piece of wood popped behind them in the fireplace. In the silence, he drank her in like a man under an enchantment, such a change from his usual glare that it almost frightened her with it's intensity. Mercy found once again she was reluctant to leave his side.

"If anything should occur again..." she murmured taking a step forward and leaving little space between them.

"You should come to me at once," he replied in his rasping, low voice.

She lifted her face and nearly brushed his nose with her forehead. He took a sharp intake of breath that ignited her nerves down to her fingertips. Her head spun with his closeness, his presence more intoxicating than a whole bottle of Madeira.

"I should say good night then," he whispered.

"Yes, I believe you should."

Without sparing another moment, he swept from the room. Mercy heard the door to the sitting room latch shut. Collapsing on the bed, she swore she heard the far off tolling of a bell tower before she fell into a deep sleep.


End file.
